


the secrets we keep

by oliverwvvd



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Flintwood, M/M, Secret Relationship, rivals to friends to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 17:50:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11064069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliverwvvd/pseuds/oliverwvvd
Summary: Oliver and Marcus both look for peace in the same location when their minds won’t shut off. Eventually, a few secrets and understandings shared force one more truth to the surface.Originally for the Autumn challenge at slytherdornet on Tumblr.





	the secrets we keep

Oliver likes the autumn. It’s a dying season, where the air in Scotland turns crisp and cold on his tongue and the trees burst open, divesting themselves of colour in shades of burgundy and gold and russet brown, the odd flash of chartreuse where a leaf hasn’t quite made it all the way to yellow. It’s why he treasures the early mornings where he gets some time to himself by the lake before breakfast. On those occasions, he can usually be found sat on one of the lower hanging boughs of the trees, the bark faintly damp beneath the material of his cloak; looking out over the water into the distance gives him a few minutes to put the race of his thoughts in order before the day actually starts. 

Now and then, he takes his broom with him and makes a few laps of the lake, too; not going full-tilt, just flying for the joy of it. It’s something he reminds himself to do every so often, when he threatens to become too focused on winning and nothing else. For someone who spends all of his time in the company of others, rarely getting a moment to himself and usually not minding it, the solitude can often be just what he needs. On fewer occasions, he goes out and does the same thing at night, those nights where his mind is racing and just _won’t shut up_ and he needs the exertion, the stillness of the lake’s waters to stop himself from climbing the walls.

It’s one of those nights.

The cold snap of the wind against Oliver’s face is sharper than it usually is during the day, and it’s fortunate that he has good night vision, because the shadows are thick. He doesn’t mind it, happy to let them cloak him, let himself be a faint outline in the darkness. It sharpens all of his senses in a way that distracts him from the fact that his head can’t be silenced. He can hear the rustle of the trees bending this way and that, the slow way that the water at the lake’s edges moves. Everything is perfectly still, until he hears the unmistakable noise, quiet though it is, of someone walking through leaves. The faint crunch of them is unmistakable. Though it isn’t yet past curfew, he knows he’s cutting it close and that he might end up having to sneak past this person, whoever it is, in order to get back into the castle and to the dormitory undetected. Annoyance rattles him abruptly, undoing much of the work to shut his brain up. _Who **is** that?_

He gets the answer rather more directly than he expected, when he touches down at the edge of the lake, vaulting from his broom only to come face to face with Marcus Flint leaning up against a nearby tree, head tilted back towards the stars through the multi-hued canopy, the colours softened by moonlight. Usually, he has a snide remark ready for whatever epithet Flint delivers his way, but he rarely _starts_ it, and something about the other’s posture makes him pause and look a little more closely. There are dark circles beneath the other boy’s eyes, and cheekbones that are much more visible than Oliver ever remembers them being before. The changes are striking and he looks a little too long, because the other obviously _feels_ him staring.

“I know I’m a pretty sight, Wood, but if you don’t mind closing your mouth before the flies get in and find the vacant space where you try to store successful Quidditch tactics, that’d be excellent.”

The insult is so mild compared to what they usually exchange that Oliver is again struck by the fact that something _isn’t right_ , knows that his jaw isn’t actually hanging open and therefore doesn’t bother responding to the jibe _._ “Flint,” he says, voice brisk. “Should I ask what you’re doing out here?”

He doesn’t know how, but he _feels_ Flint roll his eyes even as he observes it, some kind of strange synergy that’s inexplicable. “Trying to get five minutes’ peace, obviously. Could ask the same question of you. Get tired of all the Gryffindor cheer?”

The question, while again riding the edge of snide, is damned near civil for them. Oliver doesn’t know what to make of it, so he answers with the blunt truth. “Something like that. Ever feel like your own head’s trying to destroy you without your consent?” He doesn’t expect an answer, nor does he expect the way that Flint straightens up and looks at him, as though he’s never seen him before.

“What would _you_ know about that?” The question surprises him, when it comes, delivered as it is without any real scorn, but with the edge of _something_ riding it that he doesn’t quite know how to quantify, like many things about Marcus Flint. “I know enough,” he says quietly, not wanting to get into how his brain roils and tangles and burns, burns, burns until he can’t stand it, until it forces his body into activity to escape. There’s more than one reason he loves to fly, after all. He turns his gaze aside from the other boy, instead focusing out over the lake again. “Being here helps, sometimes.” He isn’t sure why he shares that, why he puts words to something so personal around Flint. They aren’t friends. They aren’t even civil unless they have to be. They’re rivals at best, on a good day.

Maybe that’s why he isn’t expecting it when he hears Flint move to stand beside him. “Yeah. Same here.” Then, a pause, the sound of the other’s breathing. “We’re not so different, really, are we?”

Oliver wants to bite back out of sheer habit, say that _yes we are_ because they’re _Gryffindor_ and _Slytherin_ and ne’er the twain shall meet by virtue of that difference alone, but instead, he stops to think about it, turns his head to catch Flint’s eye out of the corner of his own. “No, not really,” he says eventually, knowing that the admission should bother him a lot more than it actually does, given that neither of them would ever say this in the full light of day. The night’s done something to them, dissolved the barriers, let him notice the way that the shadows from the remaining leaves on the trees play across the other’s face, highlight the dark polish of his eyes. He shakes his head slightly at himself. _Must be tired by now._ A few more moments of the quiet linger, before Flint breaks it again. “Neither of us are really supposed to be here. I’ll keep your secret if you keep mine.”

He should argue that point. For whatever reason, he doesn’t. “All right,” he says instead, and the silence stretches out between them again, this time with an odd sense of comfort, as though night isn’t reality at all and here, there are no consequences. It’s almost half an hour before either one of them moves or speaks, and it occurs to Oliver that he’s never been able to stand still so easily with someone else. He’s always on the move, hands gesturing, voice discussing something, so to have this with _Marcus Flint_ of all people, this stillness that narrows the world into a different kind of focus, is not something he’s prepared for or ready for.

“I should be getting back.” Oliver’s voice is faintly hoarse. “Goodnight, Flint.” When he turns and begins to walk, he doesn’t expect the soft pronouncement that follows in his wake.

“Goodnight, Oliver.”

The sound follows him into his dreams, when he eventually stops twisting and turning in the sheets enough to rest. He can’t make sense of why.

That’s the first night it happens.

* * *

It’s a couple of weeks later when it happens again, because Oliver is _not_ in the mood and doesn’t even bother pausing to take in the lake this time as he stalks down towards it. His broom is moving before he jumps onto it, responsive to his will, and he whips out across the water with enough speed to disturb the surface, arcing in a dangerous swerve that turns him over, spinning the world for a moment that doesn’t bother him at all. Let it spin, let it all go to hell for all he cares. He can’t _sleep_ because his brain won’t shut up, and his brain won’t shut up because it’s too busy trying to pull everything, absolutely everything, to pieces. Every last one of his decisions, the academic marks that he’s trying to maintain, the other things that have been whispering in the dark to him, the difficulty of biting his tongue when he most wants to lash out, all of it has built and built and tonight shows the consequences.

So when he looks down and sees a familiar figure standing at the edge of the lake, watching, he grits his teeth, and he thinks _right_ with the sort of finality that precedes him doing something absolutely reckless, which is precisely what he does seconds later. He pulls his broom sharply upwards and ascends high, then slowly but surely, releases his control of it altogether, resulting in a freefall dive that he catches just inches from the surface of the lake and turns into a spin. When he brings the broom to the edge of lake and gets off, the words he offers outwards are all gauntlet and glass, gleaming edges beneath the unkempt velvet of low Glaswegian burr. “We need to stop meeting like this, Flint, people will talk.”

“How come you don’t fly like that during matches?” is the question that he gets in response, apparently ignoring the implication, even if he catches the flash of something that looks very like uncertainty before it’s hidden behind the usual indifferent confidence characteristic of the Slytherin. It stirs something that makes him want to chase after it, because Oliver is in the sort of mood where spotting that is like blood in the water. He only barely stops himself. “What are you talking about, Flint?” he asks with the sort of sigh that suggests the other ought to get his head examined. He sees the other’s jaw tighten, and there’s a flash of victory. _Not so indifferent after all, are you, Flint?_

“I mean that just now, you went with instinct and you took a hell of a risk, but I’ve never seen you do it while you play. Why don’t you?” Dark eyes study him. “Besides the fact that you’re obviously in a mood probably prompted that. What’s rattled your cage, Wood?”

Oliver doesn’t feel like explaining himself, so he doesn’t. “I’ll tell you what’s rattled mine if you tell me what’s rattled yours enough that you’re out here again,” he says with a smile that flashes teeth, one that’s not friendly at all. He sees it when Flint reacts to it, and the smile turns into a smirk. He doesn’t entirely understand why he’s picking a fight, the other actually hasn’t done anything this time, but he’s so desperate for an outlet, any kind of outlet, that even that will do.

“I’m failing because even though I can do the spells I need to, I can’t write essays about them well enough to get my points across.” The admission obviously costs Flint, and it makes Oliver pause long enough to actually look at the other. He doesn’t expect another admission to follow the first so quickly. “I can talk about them out loud, hell, I’m beyond NEWT level in a couple of subjects, but because I can’t write the words down, it screws me, every time. You put me in a practical exam? Fine, perfect, no problem. The second I get into a written exam, the words start to swim on the paper and it’s like translating Mermish.”

The sheer frustration in the other’s voice puts away the petty desire to fight, distracts the pressure of Oliver’s own ire, because this is a very different problem to his own. He knows that the other isn’t stupid; he fouls and cheats left and right on the Quidditch pitch, but that’s a difference in style. _When the attention of other teams is concentrated on the fact that the captain plays dirty, they’re failing to take into account what the rest of the team is doing_. It’s a trap Oliver himself fell into before he realised how neatly Flint was playing them all on the matter; it’s a tactic that professional Quidditch teams have used, he’s even read about it. Even if unconventional, it’s highly effective and serves to make all of the other teams wary of playing against Slytherin, which is to their advantage. At this moment, though, he can see in the other’s face that he’s struggling. “Have you ever asked someone for help?”

The other snorts humourlessly. “Like who, Wood? Who, exactly, is going to help without wanting something from me? I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I need to do something because if I don’t, the Quidditch scouts will laugh me out of the door. I have to qualify here for them to pay even a bit of attention.” And it’s at that moment that Oliver realises how serious Marcus actually is about the game, though in some ways he’s always known it, because the other would walk over burning coals before admitting something like this otherwise.

“I could help.”

The intensity of the other’s glare would make him take a step back if he was the type of be intimidated by it. He isn’t. “Don’t you dare take the piss out of me, Wood.”

“Oliver.”

“What?”

“You called me Oliver, the last time that we were here. I know that you know my first name. Use it. I’m not taking the piss. I’m offering to help.”

The distrust in the other’s eyes is old, jaded in a way that he’s only now noticing because he’s taking the time to look and actually see. “Why would you do that?”

“Because Quidditch isn’t any fun unless you’ve got someone decent to play against, and because for some reason, we’ve both invoked the no judgement clause while we’re here.” The reply is prompt and blunt, and he thinks that for a moment, there’s an odd look of appreciation in the other’s eyes.

“You’d actually do that?” And that tone is different, very different to what Oliver is used to, a return to that fleeting softness that had kept him awake for an entire night. “What about…?”

“Our teams can think what they want. On the pitch, it’s business as usual. Anywhere else, and it’s nobody else’s business, Flint.”

“Marcus.”

The correction shouldn’t make him smile. It does.

That’s the second time.

* * *

The third time, it’s a few weeks after they initially sat down in the library, late into the evening and unobserved. It’s a span of time that has turned the usual terse greeting of _Flint_ into _Marcus_ and _Wood_ into _Oliver_ more often than not, the two becoming interchangeable rather than solely a way to show disdain. Though there have definitely been questions asked by both of their respective houses, people learned very quickly not to ask them, because the blistering response from either one of the Quidditch captains was enough to flay skin away from bone. They’ve just spent a couple of hours studying, and it’s an odd sort of pleasure for Oliver to watch the other’s confidence in what he writes down growing, bit by bit.

It doesn’t change the fact that infrequently, they do end up swearing at each other under their breaths so that Madam Pince doesn’t hear and kick them out of the library. There’s the occasional boot to a shin when one or the other makes a sarcastic remark, but it works and that neither of them expected it to is painfully clear. What’s just as clear is that neither one of them minds being wrong.

Today, though, Marcus can’t focus and Oliver can see he’s having trouble. Rather than ask if he’s all right, he rises from his seat. “Come on, let’s get out of here,” he says.

Marcus doesn’t even ask where they’re going, just puts away his stuff with an air of relief that he’s not concealing well. Either that, or Oliver has just learned a lot more about Marcus than he thought he would, and that’s a thought he kicks himself for. To other people, Marcus was probably unreadable, because the outward confidence never seemed to falter. The rare instances where it did weren’t things that he usually permitted others to see. Oliver still didn’t fully understand why _he_ had been allowed to see it. _Wrong person, wrong time, maybe._ Even to himself, that thought doesn’t feel entirely honest, because the truth is that he just doesn’t know. Despite being allowed to see what he had, there were parts of Marcus Flint that were still and would remain a mystery.

_Maybe that’s why you can’t leave this alone._

Once they’re outside, Oliver heads over to the tree Marcus had been standing under when they came here late the previous couple of times. Dropping his bag unceremoniously, he slings off his cloak, school jumper and tie and beckons the other to do the same. With a slight frown of consternation and an eyebrow lifted, Marcus follows the instruction. “And why, exactly, am I having to partially strip here when it’s bloody freezing outside?”

“Because we’re going to do movement drills, since you can’t focus in the library right now, and you can’t do that in a cloak. The jumper will just stick to you by the time we’re done.” The words are matter of fact, but the fact is, Oliver has only ever done movement drills with his team. Sometimes, it meant that they were running on the ground, other times up on the brooms, but there was another type that many teams incorporated specifically for the Chasers to work on their reflexes, based on Muggle boxing. With a flick of his wand, he conjures a pair of pads for him to hold, nods towards Marcus’ hands. “You might want to be wrapping those.” When the other makes no move to do so, Oliver sighs. “Fine, but if you split anything open I’m not taking you to Pomfrey.” Sliding the pads over his hands, he braces himself for impact. “I’m going to ask you questions while you do this. Think while you move and see if that helps.”

It becomes a rhythm, the blows into the pads and the way that Marcus ducks the swipes in between that Oliver takes at his head, answering questions on breaths that show no sign of becoming laboured. If they weren’t in such good shape, this would be unsustainable, but as it turns out, it works. By the end, they’re both sweating and Marcus is panting faintly and visibly less frustrated; Oliver is now confident he’s mastered the Transfiguration principles that he’d been struggling through.

When the other breaks into a grin and laughs breathlessly, it’s difficult not to do the same. Instead, he asks, dryly, “Better?”

“You have no idea. How did you know?”

He rolls his eyes. “I pay attention, Flint, how else?”

“You pay everyone this much attention, or am I just lucky?” The words are obviously intended as a tease, something that they’ve lapsed into now and then, but this is the first time that Oliver hears something _else_ behind them, something that he doesn’t think he’s imagining. He considers telling the truth, that yes, he _does_ pay Marcus more attention than he thought, had ever admitted to himself before. _I must be going mad._

“Yeah, Flint,” he drawls, voice rumbling low in full force. “You’re lucky.” He doesn’t look at the other when he walks over to pick up his jumper, cloak and tie. “Come on, we’d better get back inside and clean up.”

He almost misses the way that the other looks down at his bruised knuckles, then back at Oliver, eyes suddenly seeming wider for a few fleeting seconds. _Almost_ , but not quite. “You go on.”

Oliver stills then. “You’re not coming?”

“Nah, I think I’ll stay here for a few minutes.” The smile Marcus gives him then is strained, and not quite sincere (and he wonders when he learned to tell the difference), a contrast to a few moments before. “Clear my head, you know?”

Oliver does know, but that look is seared into his head and he doesn’t know whether to push it or not. He decides not to, not this time. “All right. See you later, then.” He offers the other a smile that holds warmth, nonetheless. “You did well. You won’t need my help if you keep this up. You’ve got it.”

Clearly distracted, Marcus nods. “Yeah, thanks Wood.”

Oliver walks about halfway to the castle before he glances back, and sees a figure sat on a cloak at the water’s edge, head in his hands. He knows that Marcus doesn’t want to share all of his demons, and thus far he’s respected those boundaries. Unease twinges nervously in his stomach, but he doesn’t go back.

_What’s going on?_

* * *

The next time they’re there, in what’s silently become _their_ place by the lake, it’s a yelling match, and it’s the middle of the day. There’s no one else outside because Oliver knows for a fact that Marcus has skived off class, and he’s going after him without a second thought, because he knows exactly where he’ll be.

“ _What the hell is wrong with you, Flint?_ ”

It’s been days of the other behaving oddly, even if they’d stayed in each other’s company, and now? Oliver’s finally snapped, because it’s finally clicked that Marcus is trying to avoid him, and he wants an explanation why.

“Nothing! Can’t you mind your own business for once, Wood?” The other is on the defensive, but the dark circles beneath his eyes have deepened and he’s squaring his shoulders, moving into Oliver’s space, and it makes his blood boil. He isn’t going to back down.

“Not when you look like shit and you’ve been behaving like a complete and utter prick for days. Tell me what’s going on.”

“What, so you can fix it? Fix all the parts of me that are broken so they tick along nicely?” The sneer that goes with Marcus’ words is obviously intended to sting, and it does, and Merlin, he wishes it didn’t. “You can’t fix me, so why do you keep trying to? Why don’t you just _give it up_ already?” The other’s hands have a grip on the front of his robes now, and this is familiar, this Oliver can deal with, because-

The word _oh_ smashes through his head far, far too late when Marcus bends his head and kisses him viciously, pins him back against that damned stupid tree beside the lake, and Oliver’s responding, opens his mouth to it. “Oh _, fuck,_ ” he gasps out. And right when he thinks he’s losing his mind, Marcus teases his way back into Oliver’s mouth and slides tongue against his until he can feel himself shaking, until his hands reach up to grip into dark hair and he’s gone, he’s lost, he’s done for.

When Marcus finally draws back, his mouth is bruised scarlet from their kisses, and he lifts a thumb to press the cut in his lower lip where Oliver must have bitten him by accident. “Like I said, you can’t fix me,” he says, softly, and the words are like a blow, because Oliver _understands_ now what he didn’t before and he knows that he has to say something fast before this chance that he suddenly wants desperately slips through his fingers for good. It’s now suddenly clear that Marcus is scared as hell.

“Why would I want to fix you? More to the point, why would I want to give up on you?”

He sees the look of disbelief, and he reacts to it by reaching up and pulling Marcus in by his collar until their mouths are nearly brushing again. “If,” and to punctuate the word, he administers a gentle bite to Marcus’ lower lip, this one deliberate, “You dare walk away from me after kissing me like that, I’m going to come after you and kick your arse from here into hemispheres hitherto unreached by broomsticks, Flint, so I strongly suggest you don’t.” He leans back just enough to look the other in the eye. “Now. Let’s try this again.” And this time, when he kisses Marcus, it’s slower and moment by moment, incredibly, he feels the other _melt_ against him, feels the damp bark pressing into his back, and it’s intoxicating.

When Marcus had first said _I’ll keep your secret if you keep mine_ , this wasn’t what he’d envisaged.

It only makes it more perfect, not less.

The season is dying, but this feels like coming alive.


End file.
